The younger daughter, Meera, tugged his hand gently. “Come with us, Father. Sit. Feel it.”
He obeyed, stepping carefully into the plane, gripping the edge with hands that had carried bricks, sacks, and uncountable burdens. The interior smelled faintly of leather and fuel, a stark contrast to the dusty hut he had left behind. The seats were soft, the controls precise, and yet none of it compared to the feeling of pride swelling in his chest.
As the plane lifted off, the villages below shrank into tiny specks of green and brown. He pressed his hand to the window and felt the wind against the fuselage, realizing that the horizon he had pointed to so many times—longing, dreaming—was no longer just a vision. It was tangible. They had brought him there.
He thought of the countless moments he had spent working through blisters and fatigue, the nights he went without food to ensure the girls had a warm meal, the endless scribbling of letters, teaching them the alphabet by candlelight, stories of ambition whispered into sleepy ears. And now, twenty years later, those whispers had transformed into flight plans, into wings, into reality.
During the ascent, Anika handed him a small flight jacket. It was too large, but he wore it with pride, feeling its weight and warmth. “It’s a symbol, Dad,” she said. “Of your endurance, your patience, your love. You’ve carried us through storms; now we carry you.”
The plane leveled out, and Meera handed him a headset. “You can speak to the tower if you want. You can ask questions, try the controls—just a little.”
